


Straight On ‘Til Morning

by daasgrrl



Category: Third Star (2010)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles finds it difficult to write when old friends drop by. Missing scenes/postscript fic by any other name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight On ‘Til Morning

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Thanks to [](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/profile)[**evila_elf**](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/) for infinite patience while I tried to remember how this "writing" thing worked again.
> 
> When I was initially 'forced' to watch this movie by my aforementioned beta, I was completely unimpressed and spent a considerable amount of time complaining how maudlin and pointless it was and how I'd wasted an hour and a half of my life I'd never get back. Of course, it then promptly started haunting me until I had to hunt down a provisional copy to rewatch before finally buying my own. And along the way, there was fic. I’m sure there’s a moral in there somewhere.
> 
> I have also vidded Miles/James to Glass Pear's "Last Day of Your Life" which may be found [here](http://daasgrrl.livejournal.com/133902.html).

  
manip: [](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/profile)[**evila_elf**](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/)  
  


**Straight On ‘Til Morning**

  
I really do miss you.

And speak of the devil, here you are now, strolling in without so much as a by-your-leave. You've lost that gaunt look and the cane, but you're still wearing that stupid hat. Can't you see I'm busy here? I'm actually writing for the first time since it happened, and the least you could do is have the decency to leave me in peace. It's bad enough you read my novel on the sly; do you have to actually look over my shoulder while I'm trying to get started on something new?

“Hello, Miles,” you say, looking far too pleased with yourself, and...oh, I see. I get it now. You just had to come back to prove I was wrong about the whole rotting-in-the-ground thing, didn’t you? Although from where I'm sitting it looks more like you're making yourself at home on my settee rather than dancing across the cosmos, so it's not like you got it exactly right either. But fine, yes, you’ve made your point. Good night then, kind of you to drop by, give my love to papa.

"Still as self-absorbed as ever, I see," you continue, and I swear I'm beginning to regret thinking of you already.

Because really, you’re one to talk. It was you who dragged us all out there rather than staying home and overdosing quietly like anyone else. Even when we were younger it was always about you, everybody's golden boy; about listening to you talk endlessly about the grand novel you were going to write if you ever found the time. And after you got sick it was like the world actually did revolve around you, at least according to your family. And to Davy. It was like he’d finally found his calling in life.

But I'm not bitter; not really. It's just that I'd seen it all before the first time around, with my father. Cancer always seems to trump everything else in the pack, including the fledgeling dreams of a sixteen-year-old boy. So it shouldn't have been a surprise that I wasn't going to come on your stupid trip. I didn't need the reminder. And it was somehow worse, too, because it was _you_. If it had been Bill, or Davy, maybe I could have faced it better, but you were never _just_ my friend, but also my brother, my rival. All those years spent wondering which of us would make it into print first. I always thought it would be you. Do you know how that felt for me, growing up in the shadow of my father and of family expectations? Sadly it seems that neither of us has managed it yet, although you have all the best excuses. As usual.

Really, I suppose I ought to be grateful. Chloe was devastated, of course, which always leads first to finding a handy shoulder to cry on, and then, sometimes, to finalising the end of a marriage. I don't think Michael saw it coming any more than you did, although under the circumstances I can't feel too sorry for him. She's great, though, and the girls are wonderful, and you don’t have to worry, I'm looking after all of them the way I said I would. My company did go under in the end, down into the same briny depths as my phone and my watch, but I did manage to land myself another job. Yes, it’s still in advertising. Writing copy for moisturiser and frozen ready meals isn't exactly great literature, but it pays the bills.

And you needn’t smirk like that; some of us do still have to eat. Although preferably not the ready meals.

God, you are looking well, though. You’d been sick for so long that I’d almost forgotten what you looked like. Before. Although sometimes when I look at Chloe, I still can’t help seeing you. You know that I've loved her for almost as long as I can remember, although there was always a little more to it than that. Egotistical bastard that you are, I think you know exactly what I mean.

Do you remember sitting out on the rocks together, the day after the fireworks, after the tent burned down? Dancing around the truth, sparring with words. Even though I had no idea then of what you'd planned, I did know I didn't want to waste what little time you had left _talking_ about how little time you had left. That was exactly why I'd been avoiding you in the first place. I didn't want to hear any of your profound insights or your halting praise then, and I still don't. I’m quite sure dying doesn't really bring you any glimpses of eternity. In the end it's still just bodily fluids and ugliness.

And even when you did make me spill my guts to you the way you wanted, you already knew everything I was going to say, so there was really no point, was there? Dying or not, you were always so wrapped up in yourself; you had no idea what it was like for me. The only way to make you _listen_ was to tell you something you hadn't heard a million times before. So we laughed together, and then I gestured you over to sit on the spur of rock beside me. You hesitated, and I saw your gaze flicker from your leg to the rock, taking its measure in pain. But I insisted, and finally you sat down, wincing only slightly.

"Come here," I said, and then I put my hand on your face, turning it towards mine. Up until then you’d clearly been saving up all your bitterness for personal attacks, but for all your barbed accuracy with the truth, there was one you’d missed. Maybe I'd hidden it too well, or maybe you were just that oblivious. Either way, it was worth it to see your eyes widen in the second before I kissed you, to hear the sharp hitch of your breath before it hissed out slowly, mixed with mine.

"What was that?" you said as you pulled away, and you looked at me as though really seeing me for the first time.

I shrugged. _That_ was a fucking stupid question, is what it was.

"Again?" and the tone of your voice changed from demand to plea. And we did, and despite your illness, the strain that every movement clearly cost you, desire burned so brightly for a moment that I thought it would consume me. If only it had been Chloe there instead of you I would have taken her right there on the broken stone, raked up her skirt and plunged into her until we were both beyond thought and reason. But you were sick and frail and untouchable, and there was nothing there for us there but the view of the sea. And so I drew back and we stared at the waves together.

"Well," you said.

I held up a hand to stop you, not looking. "Not going to talk about it."

"You can't just…"

"I think I can. Actually, I know I can. Watch."

I rested my hand on your shoulder, briefly, just to show you that it hadn't been some kind of instantly regrettable insanity, and then I got up and walked away. Knowing you couldn't follow me quickly enough to force the issue. It was a cheap move, but as I had told you before, anything real that existed went beyond speech. There was simply no point in discussing it. And five minutes later we would be back to where we were, because that was the agreement we'd always had.

Yet after that, things were somehow easier between us. For a while there I really thought it was all going to be okay. But then when Bill fell - when you fell with him - it scared me more than you can possibly imagine. Oh, don't look at me like that; all right, maybe you _can_ imagine, but it terrified me more than anything that had gone before. I never wanted to be around you after you got sick precisely _because_ I didn't want to see you like that. Not ever. So utterly helpless and broken. Because if it could happen to you, it could happen to me. To all of us. And I'm sorry for that, but in the end I came on that fucking trip, didn't I?

At least when it was finally my turn to carry you, it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Although sick or not you were still pretty bloody heavy; you must have weighed a good ten stone even so. But with your arms wrapped around my neck and your cheek pressed against mine it was bearable. Just. And when we arrived at the top of that cliff it was all strangely worthwhile.

The bay was beautiful. You were right to want to go there. Yes, fine, I said it, you were _right_. It was exactly the way I remembered it, too, as though it had only ever existed for us. And for a few hours the sand and water took us all back to the time _before_. Before jobs, and girlfriends, before generally fucking up our lives. Maybe after that moment on the rocks I shouldn't have spoiled everything by telling you about Chloe, but it was something she'd been begging me to do for months, and I'd promised her I would, that I'd do it before we got back. When I still thought we'd _all_ be coming back. Of course I could still have kept my mouth shut. But maybe I also wanted to show you that I wasn't going to spend my life pining for you either; that I had plans and dreams that belonged to me alone. This time it was your turn to walk away.

But you really needn't have asked _why_. By then you should have known.

And in some ways you have the advantage, even now; you know everything there is to know about what I have with Chloe, but there are things I'm never, ever going to tell her. Things like the way you leaned over and kissed me, later that evening, when we were sitting side-by-side on the sand. Your mouth tasting metallic, of chemicals and sea salt. Or you babbling on again about the relief you felt at having accepted your fate, of having nothing left to fear. I would actually have fallen asleep from sheer boredom at the resumption of your usual bullshit except that this time it ended up with your hands all over me, careless and demanding with the freedom of knowing you would never have to live with the consequences. Or at least that's how it seems in hindsight. Under the circumstances I couldn't have refused you anyway.

"You can't possibly," I said, and you knew that at least as well as I did, but you still wanted to experience what you could, even if it was just to  _see_ rather than _feel_. If not to experience pleasure for yourself, at least to focus on something other than the endless blur of pain.

"Please," you finished softly, and god, your eyes. I don't think anyone deserves to be _looked_ at like that; it was like being a butterfly in a specimen case. You may not have had anything left then but sheer force of will, but during those last few days it burned brighter than ever.

So I shifted onto my side, closer to you, and rearranged the bare minimum of clothing possible - despite the heat you were radiating, it was still fucking cold with the wind coming off the bay. I didn't worry about the others; I don't think I gave a damn at that point if they knew what I was doing. As far as I was concerned it was just you, me, and the ocean. And although it wasn't exactly the kind of thing I'd ever fantasised about - I suspect getting an impromptu hand-job from a cancer-ridden friend on a wind-swept beach doesn't feature prominently on most people's wish lists - I still managed. _We_ still managed, although to be honest you were pretty bloody crap at it. I had to put my hand over yours to really get anywhere at all. And you kept talking to me, saying wonderful things, terrible things; until I had to tell you to just shut up and let me concentrate. But it worked itself out in the end, and as you watched me I thought I heard you gasp too, above the sound of gulls and waves and my own ragged breathing. And then we lay there for a while watching the first stars come out, and I'm not going to pretend it was anything close to amazing, but I'll never forget any of it. _Especially_ the part where you tried to wipe your hand on the sand afterwards. Brilliant move there, genius. It was a good thing the water wasn't too far away.

No, I'm fine. Really. And don't you dare start; I was so fucking tired of your waterworks by the end, I can't even tell you.

Chloe and I are still perfect for each other, though. She's everything you are and yet everything you're not. Someone I can love without every bloody thing turning into an unspoken competition. The chance to be the dad I've always wanted to be, the one I never had because he was too busy writing. And to have a family to live for. You never understood that. I think you were always a little in love with the romance of death, if only because you'd never seen up close the devastation it leaves behind.

But I never questioned your decision to die, either; not really. Unlike the others, I’d seen exactly how bad the end could get. Even before we lost the morphine, and Bill and Davy saw a little of it for themselves, I was sure that somehow you would get your way.

And when you finally pushed yourself down beneath the waves, there was a moment I wanted to follow, did you know that? Not to just be there and witness it, but to sink into the depths with you. Out there, neck-deep in the water, I could feel everything you described pressing in around me - the promise of relief, of oblivion. A way out of all the shit life throws at us, despite our best hopes and ambitions. It was so calm out there, so cold, so beautiful. I watched you looking up at the birds, gathering the last shreds of your courage, and I wanted so badly to kiss you again before you went under for the last time. But I was terrified knowing that if I did I might never let you go. And I wanted to live more than I wanted to die.

Oh, it's fine for you to sit there and laugh at me now. You don't wake from nightmares of hands clutching at your shirt, begging you to not let go. Or feel the remembered weight of dragging your limp body back to the beach. Or know what it was like for the three of us trying desperately to remember the cock-and-bull story you’d laid out, seeing the disbelief in your parents’ eyes. And my clothes were completely ruined too, I’ll have you know. So it was a tragedy all around.

And while I can appreciate it's all very well for you now that you’re dead and buried, the rest of us still have work to do. So I really can't be talking to you all day. I expect I'll see you around again from time to time, though. If you behave yourself, I'll probably end up dedicating my first novel to you. Chloe will understand.

“But it was a good death, wasn’t it?” you say from the doorway’s arch, smiling, and honestly, have you not heard a single word I’ve said? Actually, it was pretty bloody horrible for the rest of us, thanks for asking.

But I’m glad you got what you wanted. I’m grateful I was there. And in years to come, when I’m finally done with everything I have to do here, maybe we’ll see each other out at Barafundle one last time. I’ll arrive to find you already treading water in the distance, calling my name and waving for me to catch up.

And this time, maybe I will.


End file.
